Dampens Poems

Without other’s tears

Always more fun, when someone’s left out
Good company, two, but three is a crowd
Two share more joy, when it harms a third
Without that plus one, it dampens the herd

In fact, what’s the point?  Is there one at all
To climb a ladder, if no one else falls
What good is being great, if not better
If not, first place, you’re not a goal setter

What lifts you up, when another, not down
Why better yourself, while winning no crown
How can one thrive, alongside their peers 
How would we survive, without other’s tears

What She Left Remains

A red wine stain stays
seared into the wooden grain —
the table keeps watch
how their laughter filled the room
last time they were together

Jellybeans loiter
on the shelf in cookie jar
I wish none remained —
better emptiness than this
waiting for sweet that's hollow

Perfume on pillows,
a scent that's too strong at times
still wafts through the air —
sometimes the scent warms the room
often it dampens the mood

Burn marks scar the trays
where scones were baked lovingly
await scraper's blade —
to erase fond memories
of toppings with jam and cream

Much-loved song lies poised
in the player seldom used
my choice, not hers now —
ready to play her music
to ignite the glow we shared

No flowers drying
only books she left behind —
in the bookcases
that still cups the curve of hands
that held them by candlelight

Mailbox yawns empty
no letters, no messages
no texts, likes on screens —
she deleted her accounts
no one home, got no reply

So much left to clean
to pack, stack, clean and carry
yet I leave it still —
for the mess is a mirror
that keeps her ghost in the room

Why Am I?

In the stillness of dawn, a primal question awakens,  
A whisper that dances, a quest that never dampens.  
On the blank parchment with lines, I lay my thoughts bare,  
Each stroke of the pen, a truth I must share.  

You define your font, size, and spacing that is life,  
In the chaos of letters, I seek to find light.  
In a sense, we are kin—words on paper entwined,  
More woven than we know, in the fabric of time.  

Shelter in syllables, where our stories reside,  
Reaching for heights, aspirations as wide.  
Like the ants in their labor, I’ll learn and I’ll grow,  
Building bridges through trials, in the ebb and the flow.  

Boys and girls, we gather, each voice a bright thread,  
Mothers and fathers guide us, where hopes gently tread.  
In the tapestry of society, we weave our tales,  
Finding strength in our numbers, as each heartbeat prevails.  

So why am I, a question that bends and expands?  
In the ink of existence, I craft with my hands.  
Through the lines of my journey, I’ll seek and I’ll find,  
In the vastness of being, the answers unbind.

Potholes In My Heart

The scent of wet Earth rises a ghost
from beneath the lavish bungalow.
and above the high-end ceilings
and chandeliers which never flicker.

Nostalgia trickles down like sweat
Glimpses of plastic buckets
catching rain and our salty tears
flood the eyes.

Flashbacks strike like lightning
remembering the only toy-
an abandoned kite I tried to fly in rain
dampens my spirit.

Loud wails roar like thunder
hearing the violent river
who snatched my younger brother
and left potholes in my heart.

I smell warning, roof's betrayal,
Kite's surrender and the rivers hunger,
All at once.

The Wicket Keeper

**The Wicket-Keeper**


Today, I learned that a lover I once cherished has passed away. Just yesterday, he was alive, and I never imagined I would feel this way about him. It’s strange how I rarely think about the rain unless it floods my drains, my driveway, or my beloved rose garden, or dampens my happy mood. Yet, here I am, grappling with a deep sadness over his death.

The tender moments we shared will always be etched in my memory, even amidst the ups and downs that relationships bring. Our past was filled with challenges, perhaps I was mistaken, or maybe he was right. But tonight, I find myself reflecting on the love we had. He was my old lover, the wicketkeeper, someone I held dear in my heart, now a distant memory that I will always carry with me.

Niagara I Am Not

Cool
waters
fall with force;
my whirling mist
dampens the dryness
of the summer’s wither.
Flora and fauna nearby
depend on my relentless role.
The great Niagara, I am not
whereas, I miss all the tourist hoopla.

You Don't Want Me

You don’t want me.
I’m broken and bruised
I’m a web of ugly scars from my healing
I’m a fraud
I’m a jittery, anxious idiot who can’t stop thinking
I’m the friend that always dampens the mood
I’m a product of my racing heart and mind colliding
I’m someone who feels such heaviness but can’t cry
I spend every second trying to please others
I put on a show with a smile
Then give up and run away
I collapse at any small problem
My heart sinks if my mother can’t find her wallet
I lose my breath when the recycling won’t fit in the can
I’m so Obsessive that it’s impossible to hide it
So I shrug it off
Make it something else
Try to become the person others need
The good friend.
I give everything just to be chosen.
And I try desperately to hide most of myself
Because if you really saw me,
You wouldn’t want me.

The Christmas Heart

Let's strive to keep 'Christmas' alive in our hearts...always. Merry Christmas!



The Christmas Heart is bright with light

as it recalls that miraculous night   

but let's consider what often happens...  

when festivities wane...our Joy dampens~   

The Christmas Heart must try to stay full   

and resist the world's tempting pull...  

to snatch us from His Peace and Love  

which is ever falling from above~   

Often, Celebration of His Birth is darted   

but be aware...Christ...has not departed   

thus, as we travel through this season   

make now this vow to keep the...reason~   

And as the time and months spin on  

with the glimmer of yule-tide gone  

take note to be careful...lay not aside   

a rendered gift of Bethlehem's Pride...

                                               The Christmas Heart~                              


   2nd Corn 4:6-7

 

 

 

 

 

copyright;jmsbell/12/16/2016

Hands

Slime covers esily
It’s engulfing, digesting
Like an acid dissolving with a noticeable hiss
Diffusing into the brain

And just not leaving, Never leaving
It spreads from the handprint
It dampens the cloth and drips

I shuffle

The apology reaches my ears after
But the smirk that is thrown churns my stomach
I have an urge too,
To let me throw my insides
On a cycle above 60 degrees

Let me ruin myself
Make me
Not even a chance to say no before
And now I’m just tired

It follows constantly
The colour of the shirt, the skin
Hands, hands, hands, hands
Tall, too tall

I should be grateful they didn’t.
Shouldn’t I?
I now leave a trail to follow
tainting everything, or is it tint?

The urge keeps growing
Unfortunately I’m not the only one

I just hate hands, I think

Angelica

The sight of newfallen snow.
A bright white angel that shines.
Her slight halo in shadow.

The flurries, soft, on her face.
Aloft, doves fly, o’er her confines.
She oft flapped her arms of lace.

Mother’s intent, dampens joy-thrill.
Surrounded by scent of pines.
Her slow ascent ‘gainst her will.

The Christmas Alligator

He prowl very still across 
the calm merky waters 
I can see him and he can 
see me with his big yellow 
eyes his pupils are lime 
green slowly he crawls not 
even shooing the cranes 
from off his back he crawls 
past the woodstorck perching 
on one leg the tall Cypress 
trees seems to sway as the 
moisture dampens the earth 
it's July already Christmas 
trees are ready to be cut and 
shipped off in time for the 
Christmas season I love this 
time of year although the heat 
covers the swamp not a breeze 
in sight the female alligators 
panted all night laying eggs 
upon the drift wood herons 
flying high as egrets feast 
on snakes the sun peeks in 
around noon as the alligators 
approached the grass sun 
bathing watching the golfers 
tee off sipping brandy in all 
this heat commotion beckons 
someone fishing just lost a limb 
my mind wanders the nature 
of this prehistoric giant unseen 
until prey invade his space again
chomp bones breaking cracking 
like branches the lake swells wails 
screeching lots of feathers the 
deer rush through the forest just
keep moving continue on stop your 
squawking and keep on walking

All about depression

Depression is a shape poem 
A difficult one in times of contemplation 
A shape that gets you, almost in nothingness 
Whispers darkness in the valley of your chest. 
Where the minaret stood in the bed of the eternity 
Till the very last minute, that along the way, divinity sent 
Modernization knew demolishing much too well 
and much too vivid in the end, to stress what it meant. 
Oozing secretion dampens in cold and clutters on and on... 
And we call it the pseudo-pen 
That mentors to shift the shape 
Straight path should be the straightest one, to be frank, 
My utterance calms me there 
As it does mostly, unconditionally enough 
And I knew along the way, that 
God is enough for any befitting pay stubs 
To carve with a knife on any life, whatsoever. 
Man is mortal.

Quietly grow

Penny
Pennies
Into pounds
Cost of living 
Breaking down 


Digging 
Chipping 
Gritty climb 
I'll come out on top 
I'll work 
I'll grind 



Sometimes short
But never without
Thirsty commitment 
 dampens  this  drought

Drip by drip
Collect the flow 
Cup almost full
But don't let them know .

Early At the Post-Box

Early at the post-box collecting the news
trailing sleep
morning mist dampens my cheeks
a little chill
sneaks up my legs and into my shorts.

An Existential Curiosity

the abandoned house, so lonely
and desolate. The wood cracking like
cardboard shredded by a cat. Its
windows opaque with grime, where
they are still intact. A roof caved in,
finally succumbed to the weight
of the world pressing down upon it, 
its frame envious of Atlas. Ancient
furniture, pallid now from an 
unyielding sun, strewn about by 
vengeful winds. The house stands
watch like a colossus, its body broken
but ever watching, a stranger here. As
I am, when I walk its barren hallways
kicking up decade old dust with each
heavy footfall on carpet sodden with
filth. A family full of life and full of
love once roamed these hollow halls.
Breathless now, it waits patiently.
Where the roof lost its fight with time,
moonlight shines on broken chairs and
rain dampens old wood, filling it with
rot, mushrooms acquire the air and 
multiply. In a house long deceased these
persistent fighters, with soft fists 
punching through the soil, cling to life,
an existential curiosity. 

1/12/23, An Existential Curiosity, for This or That contest  sponsored by Edward Ibeh

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